


The Only Thing

by strategichoe



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), Red Dead Redemption 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur gets to be a father again, Arthur really loves his horse, Arthur's horse has a big role, Arthur’s spent too much time with Jack because now he’s putting flowers in his horse’s hair, Canon Compliant, Fix-It of Sorts, Grief/Mourning, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Isaac Morgan lives, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Slow Burn, because I say so, i actually love Arthur’s horse a little bit too, medicine fix-it, set at chapter 4, with Low Honor tendencies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2020-12-28 10:54:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21135551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strategichoe/pseuds/strategichoe
Summary: “Love. Love is the thing, the only thing.”OrWhen Arthur finds out his son is alive, he does whatever he can to get him back, and his priorities shift from thieving and the life of an outlaw, to making sure his family isn’t taken from him a second time.





	1. Conversations in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> setting the scene folks =)

Arthur sat on the log at the main camp fire of their temporary home, Shady Belle.

His eyes stayed and watched the flames, even after the Marston’s had moved Jack off the log to set him on the ground and let him play.

He stayed, even after people started getting up and wandering towards the whiskey crates. 

Normally, he’d be one of the people going towards the crates. But not tonight. He didn’t feel like there was anything to celebrate. 

Sure, he was happy and relieved that Jack was back.

But he was _ not _happy that he had been taken in the first place. 

Was no one looking out for him? Did no one try to protect him? _ How _had a family of simpletons manage to grab him? Right from under their noses?

_ We underestimated them. _

He scowled at the voice in the back of his head. He knew the voice was right . . .he just didn’t want to _ listen _ to it. He scuffed his boot through the red Lemoyne dirt, a low grumble slipping past his lips.

Despite his efforts, he couldn’t help but continue to think about everything that’s happened.

Or Sheriff Gray overheard Dutch that first night in the station. The Sheriff _ did _leave to puke his guts out, but would that have stopped him from hearing through the thin wood of the door? And if he did hear Dutch’s plans, would he have remembered it? The man was drinking shine, so whether or not he remembered much the day after wasn’t something Arthur could be very sure about.

Maybe he didn’t hear it from Dutch at all. Trelawney had said it was a town where people talked always seemed to know each other. Maybe it was just because they weren’t careful enough to be subtle? Although, _ Dutch _was not a subtle man, nor was a gang full of 23 people.

Or, maybe the families simply saw them for what they were: low down criminals looking for a score.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized, setting up camp _ right next _ to Braithwaite Manor? _ Of course they had found and taken Jack. _It’s not like horses coming and going out of Clemens Point multiple times a day was something to go unnoticed. It probably didn’t help with the smoke from campfires. 

He realized, they _ should _have known the Grays didn’t want any help with security. The town was dead silent. Not a civilian in sight. Just deputies and Grays. 

It had been cleared for a gunfight. 

_ God. How had they not noticed that? _

_ Hell, _ the Braithwaite women even _ said _she knew they had orders from Sheriff Gray. 

They had known all along. They didn’t pick up on it, there was no mistakes, they just _ knew. _Simple as that. 

Arthur didn’t think he liked that.

That they were outsmarted by people like _ them._

He was brought out of his thoughts at a deep, smooth voice. 

He looked up to see Charles and Javier staring at him, expectantly.

Oh. 

It was then, that he realized- one of them? Or both? _ Either _of them said something to him, and he was too distracted to even hear it. 

He felt his cheeks heat up in shame. “...Sorry, what?”

Charles was sat on the chair right across from him. Javier sitting on the bedroll of his tent, right next to Charles.

Hosea, who Arthur had been tuning in and out of listening to his stories, was long gone. As well as Uncle and Pearson. 

He hadn’t even noticed they had left.

Lenny was still sitting next to him, although it was hard to notice with how silent the kid was being.

Charles just looked at him, his usual blank gaze replaced with a raised eyebrow and a questioning expression. “You did good, bringing the boy back.”

He registered his own voice letting out some sort of hum. He didn’t rightly know how to respond to that. 

If he said anything, would that mean he had a _ choice _ to save Jack? It wasn’t even a choice. Jack was in trouble and they got him out. He shouldn’t be _ congratulated _on that.

He felt his lips moving, despite his brain not being very clear. “He shouldn’t have been taken in the first place.” 

He didn’t meet Charles’s gaze, and scuffed his boot through the red dirt around the fire. He didn’t need to meet the other man’s gaze, he could _ feel _ the eyes on him. 

He heard Javier start to play a somber tone on the guitar. In response to Arthur dampening the mood, most likely. Wouldn't have been the first time he's done it.

“_Hey,” _He recognized Charles voice, but the gentleness making its way to his tone wasn't something he'd heard, not since finding the German family holed up around Dewberry Creek. “Don't beat yourself up about that. Jack is back, and he wasn't harmed. Focus on that.”

Arthur appreciated Charles trying to make him feel better, he did, but it wasn’t helping much. 

He offered a quiet, “sure.” He glanced up to meet Charles’s gaze, and the man looked like he was about to say something, before Dutch walked over.

_ Oh no. _

He knew that walk. Dutch was about to make a speech. He _ really _didn’t feel in the mood for this.

Dutch started speaking before he could leave, and even then he barely paid attention to what the leader was saying.

Whatever it was, had him yelling, louder than his normal speech-making voice. He sounded angry, and unhinged.

Arthur fought the urge to cringe, and curled his lip, then looked back down at the fire.

When Dutch’s voice got the loudest, there was a boom of thunder. He didn’t know if that was a coincidence, if Dutch was getting louder because of the storm clouds, or if some higher power was sending a message.

He didn’t think he cared to find out. He looked up at the sky though, and he could tell it was gonna rain. Hard. 

He glanced at the herd when he heard sounds of spooked horses. Without bothering to check if Dutch was done speaking, he walked towards the horses.

He approached Tiama first, her being the closest, and she already seemed to be watching Arthur as he neared.

The spotted mare walked over to him, and pushed her nose to his chest. Searching him for treats.

He couldn’t help it, as a small smile made it to his face. He brought a hand to stroke the horse’s cheek, speaking softly. “Only one, girl, alright?” He reached into his satched and took out a sugar cube, holding it in the flat of his palm for the mare to take. “Can’t have Charles gettin’ mad at me for fattening you up.”

Tiama took the sugar cube from his hand and ate it, before tossing her head and pushing her nose to Arthur’s chest a second time, wanting more. 

“Now, now, I told you. One.”

Just then, Tiama started to move her head towards his satchel. 

_ Smart girl. _ Arthur thought, _ Albeit, only for treats. _

“You’ve been spending too much time around Prometheus.” He guided her head away from his bag, and stroked her neck. 

The stallion paused his grazing at the mention of his name. His head shooting up, his eyes trained on Arthur and his ears peaked forward in interest and curiosity. Prometheus was a Friesian horse. A tall stallion, with a coat as black as coal and a mane as wavy as moss hanging from a tree branch. He was really, rather beautiful. Arthur had taken his first days with the horse just to sketch him. Training and learning his breed came later.

He looked away from his horse and back to Tiama. He moved to her back, the real reason he had walked over here. With gentle hands, he started to remove her tack. He took the saddle off, and then wrapped it in the rain cover before putting it in the square gazebo that stand in the grass of the plantation house’s yard. He grabbed Charles’s horse blanket, and wrapped it around Tiama. No reason the horses should stay cold in the rain while the humans got to go to rooms, bedrolls, and tents.

“You should be proud about that. It means he’s living up to his name.” 

Arthur turned his head to see Charles standing there. When had he got there? How long had he been there?

“He already lived up to his name when we met him.” He couldn’t help the small smile he had at the memory.

  
It had been when the camp was still at Horseshoe, he and Charles went out to rob a stagecoach. Hosea having told them they were settlers from England, and were carrying a lot of money with them. Hosea had been right, and the take was good. 

The horses pulling the stage were unlike any Arthur had seen before. Black, tall, and real elegant looking. He and Charles had cut them free and told them to flee, after the English settlers decided to abandon their coach, rather than stay any closer to a pair of robbing men.

While they had camped out, to rest, since the way back to camp was too far for the already tired horses, one of the stagecoach horses had actually followed them. Arthur had woken up to find the large horse standing near their campfire, eating the carrots they had set out for the Adler’s horse and Tiama. 

Arthur had only stared, not knowing what to do. What could he have done? It’s not like getting robbed by a horse was something that just happened.

It wasn’t till Charles explained that the horse was probably born into people’s care. That, the horse probably didn’t understand how to live in the wild. It made sense. The horse was not shy of people in the slightest, and didn’t seem to want to stray too far_ . _

_So, Arthur decided to keep him. He knew a good horse when he saw one. It had taken him only a few seconds to find a name. _

_ “What are you going to do with him, Arthur?”_

_ “I reckon I keep him. I can’t keep the Adler horse, obviously. Don’t want to have a reminder of what Mrs. Adler lost waved in front of her all the time.” He had stood, looking the large stallion over. “Besides. Look at ‘im. Who would want to leave a horse like this all alone?”_

_ Charles had smiled softly at that, then went on to ask. “Do you have any ideas for a name yet?”_

_ “Prometheus.” Arthur only had to look at the stallion, stealing Tiama’s carrots for a second, before it rushed out of his mouth before he had a second to think it over. _

_ Charles had paused at that, and glanced at the stallion, then gave a nod of approval. “Beautiful name. It suits him.” The darker man then approached the stallion, stroking his neck while looking over his back, and at Arthur. “What does it mean?”_

_ “He was a Titan, in Greek mythology. He tricked Zeus before stealing fire from his temple and going down to give it to the mortals.” He smiled, a fond smile, as he recalled a memory. “My mother had always liked that story. Saying that even though his actions were bad, he had a heart on him. She used to read it to me before I fell asleep.”_

_ Something about his confession seemed to have made Charles pause, and watch him for a couple of seconds. Maybe because he rarely opened up, or really spoke about anything remotely personal, the confession probably surprised the huntsman. _

_ Though, if Charles was surprised, he didn’t let it show. The man seemed to be hesitating before he asked, “Was your mother Greek?”_

_ Arthur had blinked at him, not expecting the question, but was more than happy to answer.  
  
_

Since then, Arthur had learned that the stallion was not as well trained as he thought. He was poorly trained, having been unable to take a bit and responded poorly to a saddle. He guessed, that the horse was only used to pull carriages, despite it was _ obviously _a horse suited for being more than just a workhorse, but he would have been a good war horse, or a good race horse. Maybe even a good riding horse, if he didn’t get so goddamn stubborn at times. 

He had a feeling that Prometheus had no idea how big he really was, based on how close he stood to the other horses, and how fast he’d bound over whenever Arthur had treats. It had taken a long time for Arthur to teach the stallion not to be so aggressive over food, as when he first had him, the horse would always nip at the other horses when they got too close to his food. He was a pushy horse, enough where he could give Baylock and The Count a run for their status as ‘most unnerved horses of the herd’. 

The horse was incredibly brave. That was the biggest thing he’d noticed. He stood, unmoving in a shootout, letting nervous snorts here and there. He was almost as brave as Boedecia had been. _ Almost. _

It had taken, who knows how long, for Arthur to get the horse saddle trained. Even more so to get him to respond to his whistle, or train him to stay, flee or follow. It was lengthy work, and required patience--which the horse clearly lacked. But once he had been successful, the reward was worth it. A strong bond with a horse that _ could not _ be any more loyal.

Arthur didn’t expect a response from Charles, so once Tiama was warm and in her blanket, he moved on to start untacking Neil II. He removed the tack in quick work, wrapping it in the rain cover and putting the saddle away in the gazebo. Then putting blankets on the horses. 

* * *

Charles stroked Tiama’s head for a couple of seconds, then he started to help Arthur and went through with untacking Boaz. The paint horse, for once, not wandering away. 

Charles’s looked up from the work he was doing on Boaz to look at the horse they had just been discussing. The Friesian horse had a long mane, always did. But, Charles could tell it was getting too long. The horse’s tail was long enough that it rested against the ground, picking up mud in the thick, wavy hair. 

“His mane is getting long, why don’t you braid it?” He made it a point to look up at Arthur, who was finished with Neil II, and working on untacking Silver Dollar.

He blinked at how quick Arthur was doing this, but then looked at Boaz and decided to quicken up his pace to match with Arthur’s. He had yet to hear the blonde’s response.

As Charles put Javier’s saddle in the gazebo, the gunslinger’s cheeks were tinted pink in...shame? Embarrassment? Or were they always pink? 

He put the blanket around Boaz, and listened as Arthur scratched his chin, mumbling, “I don’t know how.”

_ How _ a man as large and in the line of work Arthur was in, got so insecure about simply _not knowing something _was beyond him. It was just another way Arthur continued to surprise him, he supposed. He had already known Arthur was far smarter and kinder than the angry, block-headed exterior he let people see him as. The man was still a mystery however, and Charles guessed that’s why he still found these things surprising. 

“I could teach you.” He suggested. He was vaguely reminded of the bison hunt, back at Horseshoe. _ Why _he was so eager to want to teach Arthur about the bison or, now, braiding, was still uncertain to him. 

If he had to guess, he’d say it’s because Arthur took direction well, and actually _ listened _to what he had to say, and took it to heart. Rather than act stubborn or brush him off like the other’s at camp. 

He saw the blonde’s head jerk up at the suggestion, his eyes dancing in silent question. “You sure?”

Charles let a now blanketed Boaz walk off, and led Old Boy over to where they were standing. He then started untacking the Hungarian Half-bred with care. “Of course. It’s pretty easy once you get the hang of it.”

“Okay.” The outlaw drawled out the word, in the usual, heavy tone. “I’ll hold you to that. For now, let’s just get ‘em warm.” He looked around at the horses. 

So far, Arthur had finished with Tiama, Neill II, Silver Dollar, and now he was finished with Maggie. 

Charles finished with Old Boy, and went to put John’s saddle in the gazebo, where Arthur was standing, putting away Lenny’s saddle. On the way in, they bumped shoulders.

He had expected Arthur to flinch, or tense, like he did when anyone who wasn’t John, Dutch, Jack, or Hosea touched him. But, to the huntsman’s surprise, Arthur just went with setting down the saddle before he strode over towards Prometheus.

Arthur started untacking the stallion as Charles walked over to lead The Count towards the small area they had wordlessly claimed as the untacking spot.

He watched Arthur for a couple of seconds--or more, the man’s face, as he removed the saddle from the horse. 

He could tell _ something _ was wrong. He had seen it on the man’s face when they came back with the kid.

Hell, Arthur didn’t even _ go _ for the whiskey crates. That alone should’ve been proof enough. 

Even more, when he saw the man could barely pay attention to his surroundings. 

He guessed it had to do with Jack. The blonde was taking it particularly hard, maybe even a little harder than John himself.

Although, that was a bit of a stretch, considering John has been walking around like a guilty puppy all night. 

He focused on untacking Dutch’s Arabian. 

It might’ve been Sean too. He could tell Arthur liked the kid, despite the multiple insults he threw at him. 

Arthur was weird like that.

Charles realized, Arthur probably didn’t really get a chance to _ grieve. _

Jack being taken, the burning of the manor, moving to Shady Belle. Arthur had to tag along, continue his work for the gang _ without rest, _and through it all he had to push aside his feelings of grief.

Even if that meant, the gang’s safety and comfort came at the cost of his own.

Charles was reminded of how dangerously loyal the man in front of him was.

They fell into an uneasy silence as they worked on finishing with the horses, Arthur’s ever present inner turmoil radiating off of him like heat waves radiating over the plains.

By the time they had gotten to the last horses, Old Belle and Brown Jack, it had started to rain—or more, pouring. They worked quickly to get the saddles out of the rain and get the blankets on the horses before they got too cold. 

When they were finished, they walked to the house, parting ways when Arthur walked up the stairs. 

They shared an exchange of wishing each other a good night, and then that was that.

  
  


The next day, Arthur’s mood didn’t seem to pick up. At all. The man looked like he was at his limit. Hosea had to tell Arthur to chop wood or bring sacks to Pearson’s wagon just to keep him from punching Micah. 

Not that Micah wouldn’t deserve it, but whether Arthur would stop punching once he started was what had the camp worried.

By the time Charles was done with chores and went to track down Arthur (Hosea had asked him to, saying, “Take him hunting, or _ something, _but get him to stop pestering everyone.”), the man was already done pestering John and Uncle. Who seemed to be the victims of Arthur’s many, many, taunts; aside from Micah and Bill that is.

The blonde was standing in front of Pearson’s wagon, setting down a water bucket. Where he went right into pestering Pearson.

They still had plenty of food from the last hunting trip with the large Bull Elk and many turkeys they had brought in, so going on a hunt was not an option. 

“Hey Pearson. I gotta question for you. Did the top of your hair get sick of you’r cooking and leave?”

Charles had paused his walking at that, Arthur had a real bad habit of turning any emotion he had into anger. But sometimes, Charles forgot how _ harsh _Arthur could get. 

His harsh words were funny—no doubt about that, but sometimes, they were just uncalled for.

Pearson only sighed into the vegetables he was cutting. “I should’ve known I’d be next.”

Arthur looked like he was gonna say something more, but Charles had chosen that point to step in. 

“Arthur.”

The blonde turned his head sharply to look at Charles, the end of the rope wrapped around his hat swinging with the movement. Arthur’s expression didn’t change from annoyance when he looked at the huntsman. Charles didn’t know why he expected it to.

“Charles.” His voice was short and tense, but he didn’t seem to be ready to throw an insult. Which, Charles guessed he was thankful for.

“Come on. Let’s get your horse’s mane under control.” He was of course, mentioning his offer from the night before. Arthur looked hesitant, which prompted Charles to continue. “It’ll be better than upsetting the entire camp.”

Arthur let out a noise of protest at that. “I am not⁻”

“You are.” Charles couldn’t help it as a small, amused smile threatened to pull at his lips. “Now come on.” He tilted his head towards the horses before he started taking steps towards them.

Arthur followed after him, and Charles didn’t even need to turn around to know the man’s lips were pulled into a grumpy frown.

He stopped once he was in front of Prometheus, then he turned back and looked at the other man. “How much do you know about braiding, Arthur?”

The outlaw blinked a few times before he scratched at his chin, answering unsurely. “Ah, not much. I know it started ‘cause Indian women had really long hair an’ a lot of time on their hands. But that’s ‘bout it.”

Charles only raised an eyebrow, having asked about the _ process. _He wasn’t expecting Arthur to actually give him some of the history.

He took a step closer to the horse’s mane, standing side by side with the blonde. “Well, what do you know about the braiding itself?”

“Even less than what I just said.” Arthur’s tone was still that impatient and tense one.

“Well, let’s change that.” He gestured to the stallion’s mane, in which Arthur started checking for knots.

Once Prometheus had his mane completely brushed and rid of any knots or burrs, Charles grabbed some of the horse’s mane and began with the lesson.

“The first thing you do is take the hair and break it into three sections.” He grabbed a decently sized chunk of mane and split it into three, and glanced over to see Arthur watching him before copying the motion.

He looked at Arthur’s sections. “Okay that’s good, but they should be more even.”

The blonde just blinked at him, “What?”

“Your sections, they should be more even to each other.” He stepped closer, before he began to divide some of the hair into more even sections, ignoring the way a shiver ran through him when their hands brushed.

Braiding Prometheus’s mane went fairly well, aside from Arthur being impatient at not grasping the subject of braiding on his first try. And his grunts of frustration when he saw his braids were messier than Charles’s.

But, then Arthur started to get the hang of it and pretty soon he was braiding the rest of the horse hair on his own, without help from Charles. They weren’t perfectly neat, but they were still braids and kept the wild mane in control.

Arthur moved on to braiding the horse’s tail, and Charles wondered if he was still needed. Arthur got down to the point of which he no longer had mane to braid when he let out a sound of disappointment before he was undoing the whole braid. 

“What is it?” Charles stepped to stand next to him.

“Can’t braid his tail, he looks like a damn lion.”

Charles was vaguely reminded of Arthur telling him a story about a lion at Emerald Ranch.

“Then don’t braid the whole tail, just the top.”

Arthur looked up at him with a questioning gaze, before trying just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some context: Arthur doesn't know about the Friesian horse breed, because at the time of the game setting, the Friesian horse in America was pretty much lost to crossbreeding. It would have been rare for Arthur to know about the breed, and even more rare for him to find on in the wild or from an American owner. If the memory of getting Prometheus were to continue, Arthur would have gone on to say that no, his mother was not Greek, but did have a liking for Greek mythology. This is completely self indulgent of course, I just wanted to write about my favorite horse breed.
> 
> The next chapter probably won't have as much Charles and Arthur scenes, but some Hosea and Arthur father/son feels and more on why Arthur is feeling down.


	2. I’ll Keep A Picture Of You On The Wall (And Choke On The Memories)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know the title is long, but A) it reminded me of this chapter and B) that song just reminds me of the stuff in Arthur’s tent so

He was angry.

He was confused.

And he didn’t know _ why _he was angry, and that infuriated him.

He could feel it, in his entire body. The way his heart tightened. The way his hackles raised. The constant clenching of his fists. Everything was uncomfortable. He felt like he was teetering on the edge. 

He felt like any moment he could break, and anything or anyone around him would be destroyed in a fit of violence.

Not even Cain or Jack seemed to cheer him up at this point.

It had been three days since Jack was brought back, and Charles taught him to braid.

Three days, of these emotions continuing to fester and burn. 

Two days since meeting Bronte again. The party at the Mayor’s house seemed to be a distant memory, the whole thing went by in a haze.

Three days of him avoiding everyone in camp, for fear that he would hurt them.

He felt like a stick of dynamite. Any moment he could blow, and for no reason other than he _ could. _

_ Hell_, he even punched Micah and that still didn’t cheer him up. And it should’ve. It really should’ve. With how the man looked, limping around in a stunned state and whining like a damn bitch.

But it didn’t. And he knew that meant this was a deeper anger. That something inside him was _ wrong_.

He just couldn’t figure out what.  
  


It wasn’t until the fourth day, when he woke up, feeling a certain type of melancholy, and he thought of what the day’s date would have been, did he really realize where the anger came from.

September 9th.

It was the day he found out about Eliza and Isaac’s fates.

The anger--was at the men that robbed him of his family.

He knew this day was coming before it even came. He just didn’t know he knew.

And he couldn’t even go visit his grave, with it being too far out West.

That thought made his heart sink.

He shook his head slightly before covering his face with his arms. He couldn’t--he didn’t want to think about this right now.

But he couldn’t do _ nothing. _He couldn’t just shove this problem to the side, pretend it wasn’t happening. That-

That didn’t feel right.

But wallowing didn’t feel right either. Nor did it feel like something Arthur wanted to do.

He let out a groan before closing his eyes, resting his arms against his stomach as he laid on his back, closing his eyes.

The next time he opened his eyes, it was noon. He had slept in a lot later than he anticipated. He sat up slowly and grabbed his hat and boots, still in the clothes he had been wearing yesterday. He grabbed his satchel and put it on.

As he made his way downstairs, everything just felt _ heavy. _ His walk was slower, he knew that. And a dull ache seemed to run through his whole body. It felt like he was _ forcing _himself to move. Every step felt like it took an effort.

Between the pain of remembering them or the pain of finding the two crosses in the yard, he didn’t know which felt worse. Both felt like someone was taking a hold of his heart and squeezing it in their hand.

At the bottom of the stairs, he nearly stepped on a passed out Uncle, the old man nearly getting a spur and heel right in the center of his forehead. He mumbled and apology before he walked through the large double doors of the house, the Lemoyne heat and noon sun blinding his senses. 

He squinted against the sun and tipped his hat low over his eyes, then glanced around the camp. He glanced at the stew pot, debating grabbing some, but the thought of eating didn’t seem all that appealing to him. The fire was a no-go, with how hot the sun was beating down. So, he decided on the shade of the gazebo. The saddles in there having been removed, and either on the horses or with their respectful owners. 

Arthur stepped into the wooden structure and took a seat with his back against the pile of sacks that were set in the side entrance. Once comfortable, he took out his journal and turned to a new page. Deciding that if he couldn’t visit their graves, then he could draw them, just to have _ some _sort of memorial for them.

He started on Isaac first, drawing his eyes first--which had been the same blue-green as his own. Then he moved on to draw the curly black hair and round and freckled cheeks. His charcoal pencil only just being able to capture the light in his innocent expression. An expression that Arthur had always loved to see before…

His hand paused it’s movements as he began to get too much in his head, and he felt an all too familiar sting form behind his eyes. He shook his head quickly, blinking to keep the tears from forming before he focused on shading the boy’s dark skin, but making sure it to shade _too _dark. Once he finished Isaac, he moved onto Eliza.

He wasn’t going to cry right now. _ He wasn’t. _

As he drew her dark eyes, that he always remembered being so kind, and her hair that always, _ always, _seemed to shine, he felt his lines and shading were too sharp and jagged to really capture her likeness. But, he didn’t stop, not until he had a full drawing of her. 

It just wouldn’t feel right, to leave something like this unfinished.

He moved on to draw the two crosses in front of the house, the whole sketch taking up two pages.

He was writing the date on top of the page when Hosea approached him. He closed his journal just as the older man took a seat next to him.

“How are you holding up?” His tone was gentle, knowing. 

Of course _ Hosea _would remember this day. He always seemed to know or remember everything. It was one of the things Arthur admired about him, what he felt made him so wise. (It also was something he would spite at times when Hosea would know when he was hiding something)

Arthur didn’t even have to look, Hosea knew he didn’t have to explain his question. He knew Arthur knew what he was asking.

Arthur thought about keeping quiet, this having never been a topic he liked to talk about. But this was Hosea, who had liked Isaac and Eliza, and had shared in his grief over the two. Maybe not as much, but enough for Arthur to feel like Hosea understood, at least a little bit. He knew Hosea wouldn’t judge him over something like this, and that was enough to get him to answer.

“As well as I can, I suppose.” His tone was far more quiet than he would have liked, and he could hear the pain in his voice, no doubt Hosea could hear it too.

“He would have been fourteen, right?” Hosea’s voice didn’t stray from the soft and gentle tone. It was actually pretty grounding for Arthur. Something he could latch onto as he tried to focus the mess that was his thoughts.

“Yeah. Just about.” He felt his throat tighten, and his heart clench at the thought of Isaac. Before he could stop himself, he was confessing to the man he saw as a father. “I miss him, Hosea. I miss her. I miss both of them.”

“I know. I know.” Was all he said, before the older man was removing Arthur’s hat and pulling him into a side hug. Arthur’s head ended up resting on Hosea’s shoulder, and Hosea had brought an arm around to start playing with the younger man’s hair. An action Hosea had learned helped calm him down. Arthur had still been young then, and getting over the wrath that was Lyle Morgan.

It felt like it had been years since they’ve sat like this. 

Arthur pressed his face into the fabric of the other man’s vest, shielding his face from view and he closed his eyes. Savoring the feeling of his hair being played with.

For a moment, for a glorious moment, he felt 15 again. Newly taken into Dutch and Hosea’s care. Before any of his responsibilities of caring for John. Before Mary, and that road of heartbreak. Before Isaac and Eliza being ripped from him. Before Blackwater, and the panic. For a moment, he felt relief. 

And then he remembered why Hosea was hugging him like this. Before he could get too deep in his thoughts, he heard Hosea speak again.

“If you want, I can speak to Dutch, get him to allow you time off.” Hosea’s fingers dropped to play with the hair at the nape of his neck. “You could leave camp for a few days--or not. Just, take time to grieve. Whatever you need.”

Arthur nodded in response, really not feeling up for any type of work Dutch had planned, because he knew it would mean going back into Saint Denis. He did _ not _ want to go _ there. _“Thank you.”

“Of course. You know you shouldn’t let it fester like this though. You have to deal with your feelings Arthur, you can’t run from them.” Arthur could just _ feel _the pointed look Hosea must’ve been giving him. “It doesn’t do you any good and it doesn’t do anyone else any good.”

“I’m trying Hosea, but-” He removed his head from the other’s shoulder. His eyebrows knitting together. “It’s just-well, talking’s never been my strong point. ‘Specially when it’s about feelings.”

“I know Arthur, that’s what the journal’s for. But when that doesn’t work, you need to _ let _ yourself _ feel. _Don’t lock it up and start taking it out on everyone else. That makes everyone around you feel bad, and it doesn’t resolve the problem.”

He felt a pang of guilt shoot through him at that, and his shoulders deflated, his head falling low so his chin nearly touched his chest. When he spoke, his voice was small. “Yes, Hosea.”

“And no drinking, either.”

* * *

  
  


He couldn’t believe this.

He-

His father was _ alive? _How was that even possible?

And his mother _ lied _about it?

Why wouldn’t she tell him?

He _ deserved _ to know.

_ It was his _ father _ for Christsakes!_

Why did she wait until now to tell him? Seven years after his disappearance?

And lying about his occupation? Why did she let him believe his father was a rancher, only to tell him he was an _ outlaw _?

And then claim she did it to _ protect _him?

Wouldn’t it have been safer just to tell him? Allow him to know just what he was up against? And what he may or may not be dragged into?

Yes, okay.

His mother just wanted to keep them safe, but I’m doing so that meant her son got to live and she didn’t?

It was all too much. It was all too soon.

He lost her. 

He loved her.

And now she’s _ gone_.

The only home he’s ever known.

And now, his father is, supposedly, alive?

It was too much, too fast. 

None of it was _ fair. _ He had to _ lose _ one parent to _ gain _another?

That’s not fair.

None of this was fair.  
  


He couldn’t help the sigh that escaped him as he left the post office, the clerk, _ yet again, _having no new information.

Opening the door and making his way onto the muddy streets of Strawberry, he was stopped by a voice that seemed to make the air around him _ cold. _

“Isaac Morgan? Is that you?”

Unwilling to let his guard down, he squared his shoulders before turning around. “No. I’m afraid you have the wrong Isaac, I’m Newton.”

Now may not have been the best time for sarcasm, but he couldn’t help it.

When he looked at who he was speaking to, he saw a pair of two men, neither of them looking amused. They looked like fish out of water, with pristine haircuts under bowler hats and three piece suits far too clean for a place like Strawberry.

City folk.

He glanced at the horses behind them—and _ God, did these men think a grooming brush was just a _suggestion?

_ And what the hell was with this guy’s face? Did someone take a still-hot cooking grid and press it to his face? _

_ Or did he have a _ really _ bad rash and just let it get bad enough to scar? _

_ Maybe he fell asleep on hot coals, the man seemed the type to do just th- _

“Wait, did you say _ Morgan?” _

_ “ _I assumed you’d have taken on your father’s name.” The same man from before spoke, while the second, pudgy man stood in silence.

“My father? You know my father?” He felt hope begin to grab and sink it’s filthy claws into his chest.

“We’ve crossed paths once or twice.” The man spoke, glancing to the street around them.

“_ Well, _ do you know where I can find him, _ Mr...?” _He didn’t care about the man’s name. Not at all. He just wanted to hear about his father. But he should at least act cordial if he wants to get what he wants.

“Milton. Andrew Milton.”

“Right. _ Milton. _Do you know where he is?” He was growing impatient.

When Isaac awoke, his head seemed to be screaming. His neck ached something fierce and his spine felt like it’d been pulled tight like the strings of a woman’s corset. He lifted his head and rolled it from side to side, his neck making a small _ pop _from the action. He blinked his eyes a few times, and squinted. He felt like he was in a daze as he looked around and found he was in an empty barn he didn’t recognize. 

He glared at the hay covered floor, remembering the butt of a rifle colliding with his temple.

He realized too that he had ropes around his arms and his ankles were tied to the legs of a chair.

That thought sent him into a downward spiral. He didn’t know how to get out. He didn’t know what these men wanted, well; now, he knows they want his father, and considering what Mother told him, that can’t be good. 

But what did they want with _ him? _Surely, they wouldn’t torture a kid? Was he bait?

He’d be pretty poor bait, considering his father doesn’t even know he’s alive.

He looked up at the sound of voices, but saw no one. Looking around, he found that they were coming from outside of the barn. He tilted his head to hear, but he didn’t recognize either voice.

“If we’ve known where the kid was, why wait until now to kidnap him?”

“Milton says it’s all about timing, something to do with his plan.”

“This whole plan thing is a bunch of bullshit. I say we just send the hounds after them and be done with it.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not the boss. So keep your head down and do your work.”

Send hounds after who? What plan? What were they talking about? And how did he play into this ‘_plan’?_

Did this have to do with his father? Did Mifton have a plan to go after him? Was _ he _apart of that plan?

_ Shit. _Looking for his father might have just cost him his life. Or maybe his father’s life. Or both?

What were they going to do to him? Was he going to die in an old barn at the hands of some no-good, slimy city-folk?

This is not how he wanted to die. He still has stuff to do!

He started yanking on his ropes then, only to find the rope would irritate his skin each time he tried.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Turns out, Hosea was right. He did need a break. It was nice to leave camp for awhile. Of course, he wasn't really _better, _but he didn't feel like he was going to punch the first person he sees, and that in it'self is an improvement.

He ended up picking some carrots for Prometheus, and he used the flowers to decorate braids in the stallion’s mane and tail. He found a couple of cigarette cards, and he was getting pretty close to a full set. Maybe, if he found the full set, he’ll sell them to that loon he met outside Flatneck Station.

He found quite a bit of jewelry in the Abandoned Church. That should keep Dutch happy for a few minutes.

He ended up checking out Saint Denis as well--or, he went there to wash the Lemoyne dust off and found himself wandering around the shops. Turns out, Saint Denis has two bookstores with art supplies, he marked his map incase he wanted or needed to know that information. He also found a store that makes instruments, and he went ahead and had the man engrave a harmonica for Sadie. 

That was lucky. If he hadn’t found that store, he wouldn’t have known where to find a harmonica.

He ended up meeting people too. He met some loon asking for 100 bottles of moonshine, why, Arthur didn’t want to know, and the explanation he got wasn’t very enlightening.

He also met a man with a boat that could be controlled from the shore. That, now _ that _was impressive.

He met a monk, who God help him, was convinced there was good in _ him._

_ Him. _The man was deluded. Absolutely deluded.

The strangest though, would have to be a man he met in a greenhouse. With strange hats and miniature statues-nymphs he called them? And he was wearing a corset-which, it didn’t look all that bad on him. But the man’s waist was made so narrow, didn’t that hurt?

And the list he gave was strange, Arthur didn’t know what an Egret was, but it didn’t sound like anything good.  
  


When he came back to camp, it was a Goddamn mess. He nearly collided with Brown Jack and Old Belle in the pathway. Both horses looked spooked out of their minds-

And then he heard it. Gunfire. 

_ Shady Belle was under attack. _

He kicked the stallion into a gallop as his hands flew to his saddle and he repeater and rifle.

Once he was close enough and he saw the O'driscoll's he dismounted and slipped behind a tree before he did what he did best.

He couldn’t even count how many men were in the tree line, let alone in Shady Belle. But one thing was for sure, the O’Driscolls outnumbered them 5:0. 

Arthur felt his heart drop in his chest as Prometheus galloped right into the thick of it all. He ran to the bridge and reared, before he turned and fled towards the woods. Arthur felt a sigh of relief leave him.

He cleared a sizable portion of the treeline, and the entrance to Shady Belle’s borders before he moved up. He slid behind a pile of sacks. Moving up made him feel even worse, Jack was surrounded by O’Driscoll’s, Javier, Charles, and Lenny were at the front, and each of them just barely dodging bullets. 

Arthur took out several more men, a strong kind of anger surging through him as he saw some aiming for Jack.

He was about to run for Jack, to protect him, but he saw John beat him to it.

Good, that’s go-

He took down another with a bullet to the head, the man falling forward to land at Charles feet.

It was still too much, and they had to fall back, and everything proceeded to be a mess from there. 

Finding out Sadie was still out there didn’t help. 

His heartbeat was in his ears as he jumped out the window and ran towards the sound of her screaming. 

He couldn’t save Sean, he’d be damned if he let Sadie die too. 

When he got there, he saw that Sadie was fine, _ more than fine, _ she could really hold her own. 

Arthur’s never seen anyone fight so angrily, sure he saw Charles and the poachers, and he’s seen Micah’s hunger for chaos.

But _ this _was rage. It was messy. It was uncontrolled.

That kind of anger could be very dangerous.

He got to work on covering her, shooting the O’Driscolls that were running towards them, and he was about to escort her to the house when Sadie went the other way.

“Sadie! We need to get back to the house-” She wasn’t listening. He broke into a run after her. “Sadie!”

“These bastards brought in a boat!”

He turned his gaze to the swamps and shit, she was right. He made that his priority and started clearing the boatmen.

And then Sadie was off again and all he could do was run after her. For someone so small, she could really run. He ran and shot, shooting any man that aimed at her or the people still in the Belle. 

He ended up pausing next to the house to keep shooting, and at the worst moment, he needed to reload. As he heard the sound of an empty repeater, he saw an O’Driscoll aiming at him. Before the man could get a shot in there was a flash of blue as glass shattered and Arthur was watching Charles tackle the man and execute him with a tomahawk. 

Bullets whipping around him caught his attention and he ran into cover. He reloaded and continued clearing the Belle before the men began to make their retreat.

He shot a couple of the retreaters for good measure before turning towards the Belle, only to see Kieran’s head, lying a few feet from his body and his eyes were gouged out. 

His stomach dropped, and his throat closed off and his entire body went rigid. 

What happened? How did this happen? 

The last he saw the boy he was happy, and drunk, enjoying Jack being back with everyone else.

And now he’s gone? Arthur was just starting to like him.

He blinked when he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to find Charles staring at him, “You okay?” The huntsman’s voice was quiet, as if he didn’t want others to hear. 

Arthur nodded, his brain hazy, but the warm hand on his shoulder helped keep him grounded.

Charles didn’t seem to be content with that answer, but he seemed to have left it alone anyways.

When Charles stepped away, Arthur found himself missing the contact. Arthur watched as Charles and Bill began to take Kieran’s body away to give him a proper burial.

He watched as Dutch gave everyone orders to start cleaning up the mess.

Then, he was being pulled aside by Hosea, who began to tell him about what happened with Kieran. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the wait everyone, I'm both a slow writer and a master procrastinator and the combination does not bode well but alas, I have finished this mess I call Chapter II. I hope you guys enjoyed it, I liked writing it, especially Isaac's inner monologue. Please let me know what you think because I do read the comments and they mean a lot to me.


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